The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

  “Oh,” Lock replied, skipping another stone into the lake. He was hesitant to say anything, not interested in having this conversation and perplexed it even came up at all. “I … I wouldn’t know.”

  “What would you do if you found her? If you met her tomorrow?”

  “I really don’t know, Deck.”

  “She should never have been put in charge,” he said, his face turning into a scowl. “They were fools to believe that prophecy garbage and even more foolish to put their faith in her.”

  “Yes, Deck, they were,” Lock said, already sensing this wasn’t going to be a discussion so much as commiseration. “And that wasn’t her fault. She was just a child. If she’s alive, she’s how much older than you..? Five years? Less?”

  “Our family should’ve been there,” Deck said. “We should’ve been fighting for our country and not leaving it in the hands of a child.”

  “If we had been there, we would’ve been too young to fight and died with all the rest anyway. If Father had stayed there to fight, would he have changed anything? Would he have questioned the prophecy or insist the Princess wasn’t worthy? It would’ve happened all the same, and we’d be just as dead as the rest of our people.”

  Deck didn’t look at his brother, but his head sank with each word. There was resistance on his face, as if this was not what he wanted to hear, yet couldn’t deny it all the same. He stood there, arms at his side, clenching and unclenching his fists. In the distance, hints of thunder rolled across the lake.

  He let out a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. But I’d be lying if I said that made me feel any better.”

  “That, I can’t blame you,” said Lock, patting his brother on the shoulder. “If what they say happened is true, there was no winning that fight.”

  A louder rumble of thunder rolled out of the south, so the brothers returned to their horses and started back. The gentle spray of rain turned into actual drops that picked up in frequency.

  Lock’s thoughts lingered on the Ghost Princess. He thought about his discussion with Seria earlier about what he planned to do with himself, and it occurred to him being able to choose was a luxury. One that, if the stories were true, Princess Lamont did not have. As far as he knew, the Princess was told she was the “Chosen One” while she was still a child and had little say in the matter.

  “I’d pity her.”

  “What’s that?” Deck asked.

  “Princess Lamont,” he said. “If the story is true and the Ghost Princess really is out there somewhere, wandering aimlessly—if I saw her tomorrow, I’d pity her.”

  Deck considered this, raising his eyebrows in interest.

  “I wish I could’ve seen Vigor,” Lock continued. “It hurts to think that after all that everyone just died with nothing left to show for it. Imagine how she must feel. Honestly, if she had killed herself, I think she’d have been well within her rights.”

  Deck nodded. “You’re a more reasonable man than me.”

  “Why? What would you do if you met her?”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m not saying I’d attack her or try to kill her. But … I probably would not be kind.” He smiled and patted Lock on the shoulder. “I guess that’s why I need you around, little brother. To be my conscience.”

  They rode on. With Aster less than a mile away, they came across a woman sitting on the side of the road. She was frail-looking, filthy, and her clothes were ragged. She was clutching her leg and weeping. Upon hearing their approach, she looked up and was startled.

  “Mercy, sir!” she “I beg you, please! Mercy!”

  Without sparing a look at Lock, Deck came to a stop and dismounted. “Did someone do this to you?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

  The woman continued weeping as Deck approached her, and Lock got a bad feeling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving in the brush and yelled to his brother.

  All at once, they were surrounded by four men. They appeared from every direction, shouting and hollering. The woman sprang to her feet, revealing a knife in her hand. She grinned and stood beside one of the bandits—a thin, bearded man with ratty hair; apparently the leader.

  “Fancy men from fancy Aster,” the leader said. “Come a little far outside the wall, have yeh..?”

  Deck said nothing, only drawing his broadsword. Lock hesitated, too caught off guard to think of drawing his. Wasn’t it only this morning he told Seria he wasn’t planning on getting in any fights?

  “Look at the fancy rich man!” the leader said with a barking laugh. His comrades followed suit. “We’ll be taking any gold you got an’ your horses. That steel would be nice, too, so why don’t you put down your toy, and we’ll do this without getting messy, eh?”

  With a smirk, Deck replied, “Come and get it.”

  Lock watched the bandits converge on his brother. For a moment, he forgot he had a sword of his own and that he’d been training to use it. He’d heard stories of this type of thing all his life—bandits and warriors and great battles—but he never expected to see one happen in front of him.

  This is really happening, he thought. This is a real fight. And with that, came the more sobering thought: We could die here.

  Fortunately, the bandits were poor fighters, and Deck made short work of them. Their attacks were forced, practically piling on top of one another, hoping to overwhelm him or force him to flee.

  Deck took advantage of their sloppy fighting and, after faking to the right, got behind one on his left. With a quick slash, he cut the back of the bandit’s neck, causing the man’s head to lurch unnaturally far forward with a jet of blood erupting like a fountain.

  A second bandit turned pale at the sight of this and stared at Deck with an expression of bewilderment on his face. What happened next was too fast to say for certain—Lock would find himself wondering that night which came first: the killing slash or the bandit dropping his sword? Either way, the second bandit crumbled to the ground with an ugly wound spurting blood where his cheeks and nose had been.

  Deck ducked the third bandit and countered with an upward cut that took the man’s arm off at the shoulder. He squealed in pain and collapsed, clutching his bloody stump.

  All that remained was the leader, and he fared no better than his comrades. He lunged with a brazen overhand attack that Deck easily dodged, and with a swing of the sword, the bearded man’s head was flying through the air.

  The woman watched the scene, looking like she would throw up. When Deck turned his attention to her, she sank to her knees, crying, “Mercy! Mercy, mercy! I’m sorry!”

  Feeling dazed, Lock climbed off his horse and approached his brother, who was trying to slow his breathing. Deck looked at his sword, thick blood sliding down the otherwise pristine, glistening blade, and there was a look in his eyes Lock couldn’t recognize. He almost seemed to be in awe.

  “Deck,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “I think so,” he said with a half-smile. “I … yes. I think so.”

  Lock was about to speak, when he saw the woman’s face contort into ugly fury. She lunged, knife in hand, and was going to stab Deck in the back.

  Before realizing he was doing it, saying nothing, Lock had his sword drawn and plunged it into her gut. Her eyes bulged, and he felt her last breath on his face before she slumped to the ground at his feet.

  All was silent except the sound of rain dripping through the tree leaves. The bandit missing his arm had gone still and quiet. A dull rumble of thunder drifted out of the south, like the drone of some tired giant.

  “Lock..?” said Deck. “Are you okay?”

  Lock didn’t answer, looking at the bodies lying around him. He’d heard stories of great warriors and battles all his life, but despite training to use a sword, he never expected to witness one. And now that he had—now that he had actually killed someone—it all seemed … wrong.

  This was no glorious battle. No heroic struggle. It was a spur of the moment skirmish with a ha
ndful of would-be bandits who looked like they had no business carrying weapons.

  “I feel sick,” he said.

  “It was us or them,” Deck said, patting his brother on the shoulder. He sheathed his sword and walked to his horse. “It’ll get easier.”

  “What will?”

  “Battle.”

  That only made him feel more sick.

  Part II

  Pit of Scorpions

  9

  Katrina Lamont dreamed.

  It wasn’t, however, her usual mix of nightmares, ghosts, and regrets. Tonight she dreamed a memory. A good memory.

  She was back in Vigor, propped on a tree branch high above the ground. She rested against its thick trunk, flicking berries she’d found into the air and catching them in her mouth. It was the prime of spring, when the cold days were behind and the hot days were still ahead—leaving the countryside in the perfect zone of comfort.

  This morning especially was one to appreciate because she had been granted the rare “day off,” as she preferred to call it. There would be no training. No traveling. No worries about orc ambushes or assassins sent by Tyrell. Today, Katrina was allowed to relax and bask in some well-earned laziness—a rare and valuable treat.

  At the age of thirteen, she knew little besides living in a constant state of “on the run.” Her friends and teachers were rebels who had to exist at all times one step ahead of Tyrell and his enforcers. She herself was prized above all, for she was the Chosen One—a label Katrina felt uncomfortable wearing.

  When she wasn’t on the move, she was training. She started basic combat training at the age of seven—a mere two years after she was first found by her people—and much of her days since then had been learning to fight and use a sword. She killed her first man by the age of nine—an incident that continued to haunt her—and she had already experienced battle firsthand.

  Now that she entering her teen years, her training had grown more arduous. Not just in combat, she also began learning strategy and leadership—for she was no mere soldier. She was not just another rebel in the cause for Vigor’s freedom. She was Princess Katrina, the last Lamont. She was destined to save her people, and that meant she needed to know more than just how to use a sword.

  She remained in her tree, savoring the tart taste of berries in her mouth, and contemplated how she would spend her free day. If it got any warmer, she considered, she could go swimming in the pond outside camp. Taking in some sun had a certain appeal—for back then, Katrina actually preferred not to have a pasty, sickly complexion. She was tempted to do some reading later—something she wanted to read and not the usual texts meant to educate and refine her abilities.

  At the moment, though, she was content to sit and enjoy having nothing to do.

  As she caught the last berry in her mouth, she happened to see movement out of the corner of her eye. Her perch offered a fair view of the land, and several yards away, just over a nearby hill, she saw a lone shape slinking across the meadow. It was difficult to tell from the distance, but the figure was creeping along, keeping itself hidden behind trees and bushes.

  The figure came closer, and she saw it was a boy. He appeared to have shaggy, brown hair and wore loose and ragged clothes. He was cradling something in his arms, and Katrina was reminded of a small animal that had stolen some food and was looking for a place to hide it.

  He ran past her tree, still about twenty feet away, and she caught a glimpse of what he was carrying: it appeared to be a wooden chest embroidered with gold. Smirking, she guessed if she found the nearest road she might find a carriage or camp missing one of its belongings.

  She was tempted to let the thief be. From the direction he was coming from, his prize hadn’t been taken from the rebels. And based on the direction he was going, he wouldn’t stumble across their camp either. She also doubted a lone, young thief had killed anyone taking his prize.

  Not my business how a boy earns his living, she thought. Times are tough.

  But as she watched him scurry into the distance, the temptation to follow him grew—though she wasn’t sure why at the time. Since turning thirteen, Katrina had noticed certain changes. She had always been a pretty girl, but she was already becoming the beautiful woman she would grow to be. And in her growth, there were newfound desires that went with it.

  She’d known children throughout her life, but had formed few lasting relationships. Children were rarely seen among the rebels and more often kept away for their safety. Katrina was usually the only child at camp, and because of her training, she was almost always surrounded by adults.

  As childish as it might have been, there were times—in secret—that Princess Katrina pondered if or when she might meet a prince. Although the thief was certainly not that, curiosity got the better of her.

  She climbed down from her perch and followed. The thief was careful to stay as hidden as the countryside would allow, and every so often, he stopped to ensure he wasn’t being tailed—keeping Katrina on her toes.

  He came to a rest in a small ditch half a mile away. She crept up on him, but chose not to make her presence known. She was not unlearned in stealth and sneaking, so she was able to hover right over him unnoticed.

  She watched him pry open the chest and heard his eager laugh when he looked through the gold contained within. He started stuffing coins into his inside pockets, socks, and boots. He would then pause, stand up, and shake around, as if testing how much noise he was making with the coins hidden in his clothes.

  When he was satisfied, he closed the chest, muttering something under his breath Katrina couldn’t make out. Taking a guess, she assumed the coins pocketed were for him and the chest would go to his parents or boss.

  “I think you’re being cheated,” she said.

  In a flash, the thief was on his feet with a pair of daggers drawn. He kicked the chest behind him and glared at her with the look of a dog prepared to fight for his meal. His face relaxed upon seeing her, but the daggers were still out and his posture tensed.

  Katrina had been lying on her stomach as she watched him. Now that he knew she was there, she slid over and sat on the edge of the dirt wall overlooking the ditch. Her movement was slow and deliberate—both to show she neither meant harm, nor feared it from him.

  Up close, she got a better look at the young thief. She figured him no more than two years older than her. His face, though smeared with dirt, was smooth and hairless. He had brown eyes and a small, light scar on the end of his right eyebrow. It was difficult to tell from his loose-fitting clothes and oversized coat—which looked like it was meant for an older man—but he appeared to be a fit, though underfed boy.

  If he was older, he’d probably look rugged, she mused. As he is, he just looks filthy.

  Still holding up his daggers, he glanced to his left and right, as if expecting more people to appear. “Right, so,” he said. “What is this?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I was just curious.”

  He nodded, daggers still aloft, and said, “Good to know.” There was another long pause, and he glanced around again. “You alone..?”

  “Yes.”

  With a sigh of relief, he lowered his weapons. “Okay, good. You gave me a scare there.”

  She considered taking offense to his apparent assumption she was no threat to him, but decided to play along. “Where’d you get the chest?”

  “I found it,” he said, picking it up and holding it under his arm.

  “I’m sure you did,” she said, smirking.

  “Yes indeed. I found it …” He cracked a cocky smile. “… in the back room of some rich guy’s house … behind a locked door … surrounded by guards.”

  Katrina snorted.

  “Oh..?” he said. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe you took the chest,” she said, hopping into the ditch. “But I don’t believe you went through all that to get it. I’m betting you just snatched it off someone’s carriage.”

  “You make m
e sound like a common sneak!” he said with mock offense. “And even if I did do that, that also takes great talent, I’ll have you know.”

  “It’s not that hard.”

  “Oh, really..? You think you can do better?”

  She grinned.

  Before he could react, her sword was drawn. With a flick of her blade, the chest was snatched from his grip and thrown into the air. She caught it and held the chest up in front of him.

  “I think I just did.”

  His face was blank. Katrina noted he had a good gambler’s face—she couldn’t tell if he was angry, impressed, amused, or worried. All he offered was a quiet, “Hm.”

  He cleared his throat and said in an even, toneless voice, “Cute. That’s—heh—that was cute.” He chuckled, and she still couldn’t tell what was behind it—genuine amusement or restrained anger. Nodding, he added, “I suppose I asked for that.” Taking out his daggers again, he said, “I’m man enough to admit when I’m shown up, but I will be needing that chest back, so if you could be a dear and hand it over …”

  “I don’t know,” she said, yawning. “From the jingling and jangling going on in your pockets, I think you got your share. You weren’t keeping the rest anyway, so I might as well, don’t you think?”

  “Look,” he said. “I’m all for fun and games, but I do need that chest.”

  For a moment, Katrina considered just giving it back. She was only teasing, but she couldn’t tell whether he was playing along or not. If he was, she could continue her little game. If not, this could turn ugly.

  “Meh,” she murmured, shrugging. “No sense ruining a good morning.”

  She was about to pass him the chest, when he said, “I agree. Nothing spoils a day like embarrassing a pretty girl.”

  She froze and looked into his eyes—and his gambler’s face gave away. There was a glint that gave her an answer.

  Grinning, she said, “On second thought … let’s ruin it.”

  Holding onto the chest, she leapt out of the ditch and held up her sword. The thief followed suit with his daggers drawn. They circled one another, each with a smirk on their faces. Katrina felt eager and excited, and with some amusement, realized that even on her day off, she was itching for some swordplay.